


Though I Walk

by Jay_eagle



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Arguing, Douglas Whump, Douglas needs a hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Grief/Mourning, MJN Air Is A Family, Martin copes without a manual, Original Character Death(s), caring!Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-12 06:12:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3346484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_eagle/pseuds/Jay_eagle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An anon prompter on Tumblr requested the following: "a close member of Douglas' family dies and he tries to keep it a secret from MJN, but Martin soon realises something is very very not good with his first officer and gives as much comfort as he can."</p><p>Trigger warnings for bereavement/grief and the death of a (non-canonical, unseen) character.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GnomeIgnominious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GnomeIgnominious/gifts).



> The title is taken from the text of Psalm 23, "The Lord is my Shepherd". Not that I think that the crew/Douglas are particularly religious necessarily, but it's a well-known passage and the snippet felt appropriate to me here.

Douglas, Martin reflected, had broken his own record this week. The first officer had now been in a foul mood for (Martin counted) four days. _Four_ days. Unheard of.

 

Martin wasn’t stupid - he would never expect his crew to be perfectly chipper all the time. ( _Especially not considering they’re_ your _crew_ , his brain prompted him, to his annoyance, before he could squash the thought.) They all had the odd bad day; for Douglas it tended to be if Martin irritated him particularly spectacularly, or if his ex-wife cancelled his plans with Emily for the weekend at the last minute. The last time that had occurred, Douglas had sulked for 48 solid hours, and Martin couldn’t say he blamed him.

 

But the past few days of Douglas’ foul mood felt _different_ , somehow. Martin had never been a man of tremendous emotional perceptiveness, but he knew his crewmates well enough to read the reactions of Arthur and Carolyn to Douglas’ barked, sullen commands. He could sense that this was something… new. There was an odd, ragged unhappiness beneath Douglas’ terse utterances that Martin had never come across in his FO before.

 

After a couple of nights of Martin brooding over what the problem could possibly be and futilely hoping it would go away on its own, he concluded that he’d better bring it up. He was the Captain, after all; technically the well-being of the crew was his responsibility. If something was the matter with Douglas… well, it was his duty to try to fix it. His spirit quailed a little at the thought, but he managed to ask a tentative question once they had taken off on that day’s return leg from Lisbon.

 

“Everything alright, Douglas?”

 

“ _Fine_ ,” came the growled response, along with a vicious flick of one of GERTI’s switches. The lever came loose immediately, and Martin had to reach to prod it back into alignment, casting a reproachful glance over at Douglas as he did so.

 

“Really! Whatever’s the matter, you don’t have to take it out on the plane.”

 

Douglas didn’t answer, a sorely-tried sniff the only indication he’d even heard Martin’s admonishment.

 

Just then, the door to the flight deck burst open, and Arthur sauntered in, seemingly unabashed by Douglas’ earlier snarled rebukes. Martin envied the steward’s ability to allow insults or criticism to roll off him like water off a duck’s back after an hour or two, no matter how hurt he’d looked on the outbound flight at Douglas’ periodic unwarranted harshness.

 

“Coffee for two!” Arthur chirped, wiggling clumsily between them to deposit the steaming cups on the top of the instrument panel.

 

“Thanks,” Martin acknowledged, and looked over at Douglas. He’d never known the first officer _not_ to have some sort of comment or quip to pass on Arthur’s beverage-supplying skills – not until this week, at least. But Douglas just stared woodenly ahead, ignoring them both.

 

Arthur had obviously noted the uncharacteristic lack of response too, judging by the worried look he shot Martin as he stepped back a little. To Martin’s immense trepidation, the steward seemed to take it upon himself to try to remedy Douglas’ grumpiness - by making cheerful conversation.

 

“The take off was bumpy, wasn’t it?” Arthur sounded as thrilled as he always did by the excitement of turbulence. Given that Douglas was operating, though, and knowing - as Martin did - how his FO prided himself on perfectly level flying wherever possible, Martin wasn’t sure that this approach was likely to make Douglas smile.

 

Sure enough, Douglas just turned and gave Arthur a truly withering stare. “We had to go through thick clouds, Arthur. What did you want me to do? Fly _under_ them all the way home?” He turned back to the front with a supercilious shrug. “Then we’d be even later than we already are.”

 

Arthur didn’t bat an eyelid, to Martin’s surprise. “Oh no! Are we late?”

 

“Yes,” Martin responded, hastily, before Douglas could get another word in. He noticed Douglas’ hands tightening round the yoke and babbled on, nervously. “We got held behind an Etihad flight, you know, the Boeing 747? They had to re-count their passengers.”

 

“747?” Arthur looked perplexed for a moment. “Oh, the one with the Roman nose?”

 

“Roman -?” Martin was taken aback, but Arthur barreled on, oblivious to a flight deck atmosphere you could cut with a knife.

 

“Yes, you know, because it’s a double decker aircraft it has a really odd-looking nose. I always think they look arrogant, don’t you? Like a snooty old professor. Except then I feel all guilty because the poor plane can’t _help_ how it looks, and perhaps it’s got a very nice character really, and all the other planes might make fun of it and that’s mean –“

 

“Arthur!”

 

Arthur jerked to a halt at Douglas’ snapping of his name. The FO had his fingers pinched to the bridge of his nose and was breathing hard.

 

“Yes, Douglas….?”

 

“Don’t you have things to do?” Douglas sounded as if he was at the absolute limit of his patience.

 

“Oh!” Arthur retreated backwards. “Yes, of course, I’ll go and help Mum.” He turned, to Martin’s momentary relief, but the thankfulness proved premature as Arthur just as quickly spun round again. “Wait - you said we were late?” The steward gave a worried grimace. “How late are we?” He didn’t give Martin a chance to reply. “It’s just that I’m supposed to meet Pobs tonight and I’ve already had to cancel on her once and if I’m late today, it’ll be an absolute disaster, I don’t think she’ll –“

 

“Arthur!” Douglas flung his hands away from the controls and Martin grabbed for the yoke in horror, whether GERTI was on autopilot or not. Douglas’ fists were balled in his lap, and a crimson flush stood starkly out on his cheeks. Martin had never heard Douglas half-shout in such grim, furious tones, never, never. “For God’s sake, just…. _fuck_ o _ff_ ,” Douglas snarled, before turning and skewering the transfixed steward with an incandescent glare.

 

Martin squeaked in shock, just as the door to the cabin flew open, ricocheting off the wall. “ _Douglas Richardson_.” Carolyn’s tones were icily calm. “Explain yourself. _Now_.”

 

Douglas simply turned back to the front, and said nothing, ignoring the three of them; he must _know_ they were staring at him, Martin thought.

 

Carolyn gave him a few seconds, then, seeing he wasn’t going to respond, spoke up again. “Right. Martin, you have control.”

 

“I – what?” Martin choked.

 

“Seeing as our First Officer has clearly taken leave of his good sense, _you_ will operate back, Captain.”

 

Martin shot a glance at Douglas. “I have control…?” he ventured, expecting a rude rebuttal.

 

“You have control,” Douglas confirmed, in a voice that was simply blank and uncaring. He sat back and folded his arms, for all the world like a ticked-off schoolboy.

 

“Arthur, go and tidy the galley.” Carolyn stood aside to let her son shoot past her.

 

“Right you are, Mum,” he called, but Martin could hear the unhappiness in his voice as he departed. _Focus_ , thought Martin, desperately. _You have a plane to operate_.

 

Carolyn clearly hadn’t finished, though. “You may be the longer-serving pilot on board, _Douglas_ , but nothing – _nothing_ – gives you the right to shout _that_ at a colleague. Much less Arthur.”

 

“Preferential treatment,” Douglas sneered, but Martin perceived that his heart wasn’t really in the insult, as if the fight was ebbing out of him. The captain looked hastily backwards at Carolyn, whose lips had tightened to a thin line.

 

“That does it,” she snapped. “I don’t know what’s the matter with you this week, and I really don’t care. If we'd had passengers on board to overhear that outburst, I’d have fired you like a shot. Yes, even you, Douglas ‘magic-solutions-to-everything’ Richardson. I’ve no use for a pilot who’s bullying and abusive – goodness knows _my son_ and I had enough of that with his father.” She took a deep, slightly calmer breath, but Martin still shivered at the frost in her voice. “As it is – you’re suspended. One week. No pay.”

 

Carolyn couldn’t see Douglas’ face from where she stood behind him, but Martin could see the look of utter devastation flit across his expression – just for a second, and then it was gone: replaced by the blank, emotionless mask that sat so unnaturally on Douglas’ features. “Fine,” Douglas replied, sounding unperturbed. “A week off. Just what I’ve always wanted.”

 

Carolyn didn’t rise that time, simply glowering furiously at both pilots before sweeping out of the flight deck.

 

Martin half-opened his mouth, though he had no idea what he was about to say, but – “ _Don’t_ ,” snapped Douglas, pre-empting him.

 

Martin slammed his jaw shut again and didn’t say a word all the way home.

 

* * *

 

 

That evening, Martin tried his best to forget about the day’s ugly scene. He even sat down with the students to watch _Big Brother_ as a distraction, a show he’d never felt any desire to catch in his life before. But the fight between the Knapp-Shappeys and Douglas weighed heavy on his conscience, for some reason; it even started to irritate him, knowing that the whirling worry filling his brain was in no way his fault or responsibility - and yet he was unable to let it go. He couldn’t imagine what had made Douglas lash out like that – not at Arthur, whom the FO normally jollied along and laughed with. For heaven’s sake, he was almost a second father to the boy.

 

Even so, Martin thought, uncomfortably, Douglas had never been more similar to Arthur’s _real_ father than he had been today. The look on Arthur’s face as he’d scurried from the flight deck had made something sharp twist in Martin’s stomach – it was like watching someone tread deliberately on a puppy. Martin would have felt utter rage and even disdain for Douglas for the hurt he’d caused Arthur, if it weren’t for the fleeting glimpse he’d got of Douglas’ expression as Carolyn suspended him. Just for a moment, Douglas had been on fire, tortured, burning where he sat.

 

Martin had had enough. Offering no explanation to the startled students, he sprang up, snagged his car keys from their hook in the hall, and set out to drive across town to Douglas’ house. _Something_ was up. And it was his job – the captain’s job – to find out what.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite fretting all the way over to Douglas’ home, by the time he rang the bell, Martin still hadn’t come up with a coherent plan of attack. When Douglas answered the door, drying his hands on a teatowel and with a distinctly unwelcoming expression on his face, all Martin could manage was a garbled “Hello-I-mean-how-are-you –“

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

Douglas did, at least, sound less aggressive than he had on the flight and more simply... bewildered. Martin pulled himself together.

 

“I wanted to see if you were alright.”

 

Douglas raised his eyebrows. “Tickety-boo, thanks.” They stared at one another for a moment, then Douglas started to close the door in his face.

 

Martin’s hand shot out to stop him. “I don’t believe you.”

 

Douglas laughed, hollowly. “So?”

 

 _That does it._ “I’m coming in.” Taking all his courage in his hands, Martin pushed past Douglas into his hallway. “We’re going to talk about this.” He strode into Douglas’ lounge, not waiting to see if his first officer was following.

 

To his slight amazement, Douglas did come after him. Martin planted himself firmly on one of the sofas, and watched Douglas do the same. He raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

 

Douglas waved a supposedly airy hand; Martin tried not to notice that it was trembling slightly. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

 

Martin gesticulated wildly, frustration overcoming him. “Oh, I don’t know! How about ‘sorry, Martin, for being so rude?’ How about ‘Martin, I’m in some kind of trouble and don’t know what to do?’ Or ‘sorry, Arthur,’ for that matter – you really hurt him, Douglas, you –“

 

Douglas stood up abruptly. “I don’t have to listen to this.” He took a pace towards Martin, who drew back instinctively at the thunderous look on his face. The FO let out another hollow, mocking laugh – _this isn’t Douglas, it’s not, it’s not,_ Martin thought, helplessly.

 

Douglas walked off. “Show yourself out,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m making dinner. I don’t want to talk to you.” With a _thump_ , he swung a fist into the wall as he exited the room.

 

Martin sat stock still, listening to the sound of Douglas moodily clattering pans and cutlery in his kitchen. _Well done, Captain Crieff_ , he chastised himself. _Beautifully handled_. Still, there was no manual for this situation – how was he supposed to know what to do? Absently, while he dithered about whether to leave, his brain began constructing a set of SOPs for ‘Action in Case of First Officer’s Unprovoked Meltdown’.

 

Just as he’d concluded that his SOP would be useless in the face of someone who would barely look at him, let alone talk, an almighty crash resounded through the house from the kitchen. Without a second thought, Martin sprinted to see what on earth had happened, momentarily terrified that Douglas was hurt. He skidded through the door to find his FO with his back to him, crouching over the shattered remains of a glass dish, head in one hand and shoulders hitching. Martin gaped, then stepped tentatively towards him, saying “Douglas – wha-?”

 

Martin got no further, however. As he leant one hand on the worktop by Douglas, a sliver of the smashed dish stabbed its way into his hand, causing him to cry out in agony and Douglas to jump out of his skin, lurching upright to face him.

 

“What are you doing?” Douglas’ voice was low and furious. “I told you to leave – I – oh, no.” Douglas gaze had fallen on Martin’s wounded palm.

 

Martin glanced down at it. A trail of red was trickling sluggishly down the cupboard beneath his hand. “Ow,” he said, stupidly. He looked up again, and met Douglas’ eyes, tensing for the inevitable next outburst of rage.

 

Instead, to his shock and horror, Douglas burst into tears.

 

“What the –“ Unthinkingly, Martin reached for him, halting only as Douglas threw up his hands to prevent him from stepping in any more glass. Instead, the FO grabbed a roll of kitchen towel and picked his way out of the fragments towards the captain. Martin allowed himself to be ushered to sit down at the kitchen table, an expression of utter stupefaction written all over his face. _This can’t be happening_.

 

Douglas didn’t even seem to notice the tears rolling down his own cheeks as he gently inspected Martin’s hand. Giddy relief that at least the first officer hadn’t flown off the handle again dulled the pain in Martin’s palm, and he swabbed at the cut absently with the paper. Once the bleeding had slowed, he felt brave enough to look at Douglas again.

 

Douglas seemed to be expecting him to stare and turned away, walking blindly over to the sink to dampen some more kitchen roll. He shut the tap off after a few seconds, but didn’t turn around, leaving Martin watching his heaving back with ever-growing concern.

 

“Douglas?” he said, quietly, eventually.

 

Douglas’ response was so soft, Martin had to strain to hear it.

 

“She’s dead.”

 

“What?” Martin’s mind revved furiously in neutral, for a moment. “Who?”

 

Douglas didn’t seem to be able to answer, the sobs he’d been suppressing fighting their way out of him audibly, now. Martin’s heart raced, and he approached, cautiously, trying not to incite the rage he feared was still blistering just beneath his FO’s skin. “Who – who’s died, Douglas?” He put a tentative hand to Douglas’ shoulder. “You’re scaring me.”

 

Douglas turned, at that, looking blotchy and rumpled and nothing like the smoothly put-together man that Martin knew. Martin felt horrifically awkward; nothing in his life had prepared him to deal with a nearly incoherent subordinate who was old enough to be his father – if said subordinate had started very young… And Douglas, oddly, did look - very young - with all his defences stripped away, standing, weeping in front of Martin.

 

“There, there,” said Martin, desperately, patting Douglas’ upper arm, ignoring the fact that he had to stretch slightly to reach it.

 

The words caused a curious half-sob, half-explosion of sudden laughter in Douglas. “There, there?” he husked, his voice raw from crying. “When are you from, the 1950s?”

 

Martin bit back an indignant retort as the flash of humour that had made Douglas’ face recognisable again disappeared as fast as it had arisen. He settled instead for re-posing his question. “Who’s died, Douglas?”

 

Douglas stared at the floor for a few long seconds, finally mastering his outpouring of grief. “Ava,” he managed. “My – my god-daughter.”

 

Part of Martin sighed in relief – for hideous minutes, he’d been terrified that it was Emily. Or Helena. He’d met Helena – _no_ , _shush, brain_. “I’m so, so, sorry,” he said instead. “Your god-daughter? Surely – she must have been so y-“

 

“17.” Douglas didn’t need the full question. He stepped back from Martin, drawing away from the awkward clasp of the captain’s hand on his arm.

 

“Oh, no.” Martin didn’t know what to say again. “Do you – I mean, shall I – I - I could make us some tea. And I can listen.”

 

At first, Douglas’ brow furrowed, his instinct clearly to refuse. But he seemed to reflect harder, and after a few moments, he accepted. “OK,” he offered, hoarse still. “Tea. And… I’ll tell you what happened.”


	3. Chapter 3

Five minutes later, Martin was sitting opposite Douglas at the kitchen table, both of them nursing steaming mugs of tea. Martin breathed in the calming, tannin aroma, and pondered what to say. Neither of them seemed to know how to begin.

 

At length, Douglas awkwardly cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he managed.

 

“It’s fine.” Martin wasn’t quite sure what he was apologizing for, exactly.

 

“It isn’t.” Douglas thumbed a ridge on the side of his mug. “I’ve been being horrible to you all for the last few days.”

 

Martin shook his head. “It sounds like you’ve had a good reason.”

 

“Hmm.” Douglas spun the cup round, slowly. “I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

 

Martin hesitated. “What happened, Douglas?”

 

Douglas cast his eyes down, and Martin flinched, fearing he’d said the wrong thing. But Douglas didn’t seem upset, or offended. “My god-daughter,” he began, after a pause. “She – she’d just finished her A/S Levels, on Tuesday. And… well, she’s had diabetes since she was eleven. Ages.” He rubbed hard at a spot of tea on the table’s surface, viciously scrubbing the mark away. “It’s never been particularly well-controlled, no matter what she and her parents did. But – all the same – you never expect – you’d never think – “ his voice wobbled – “that something as common as _diabetes_ would k-kill her.”

 

Martin wanted desperately to reach over and take his hand, but he didn’t dare. He settled instead for a distressed hum. “I’m sorry,” he said, again, feeling helpless and useless.

 

Douglas gripped his mug even harder. “She just went to bed as usual on Tuesday night, all happy and relaxed that she'd finished her exams... and when her little sister went to get her up in the morning… well, it was too late.” His voice broke on the last word, and Martin was distraught to see fresh tears spilling over.

 

“God,” he said, feeling utterly inadequate. He took all his courage in his hands and hastened round the table to take the seat next to Douglas, wanting to be nearer, hoping his proximity would convey all the support he couldn’t put into words.

 

Douglas didn’t bat an eyelid, just carried on; the grief leaching out of him syllable by syllable. “She’d gone into a coma in the night. Low blood sugar, and no one was awake to notice… so she just slipped away. Only a teenager - she wasn’t supposed to die. She wanted to be a _doctor_ , for God’s sake!” He took a ragged breath. “She was so clever, was heading for Cambridge - medicine – my parents would have loved her for a daughter – well, any parents would…” He waved a shaking hand. “And _her_ parents – her mum called me, on Wednesday. She could barely speak, and I was so shocked I didn’t know what to say.”

 

“I’m s-sure you said the right things,” Martin stammered, patting Douglas’ knee.

 

“What right things?” Douglas looked up at him, but there was no anger in it, just horrible, numb anguish. “There _aren’t_ any ‘right’ things. How can you say anything meaningful to a mother who’s lost their eldest child? How can you offer any shred of comfort?” He thumped a fist on the table, making Martin jump. “For fuck’s sake. She’d barely lived, and now she’s gone. It should have been someone – anyone else. Me, even. I’ve had plenty of good years, and God knows when I was drinking then I did enough stupid stuff that my luck should have turned at _some_ point. Instead, the universe decides that Ava – Ava – that it wants _her_ , instead.” Douglas trailed off, new sobs making him incoherent.

 

Martin couldn’t speak, didn’t think. He just leant forwards and enveloped Douglas in an enormous hug. After a few instants of surprise, he was relieved to feel Douglas’ arms snaking round his back, accepting the comforting embrace. Douglas’ tears shook through both of them, the FO mindlessly gripping a fistful of Martin’s jumper and twisting it in his distress. Martin felt his own eyes prickling in sympathy as Douglas’ crying soaked through his pullover, creating a tiny cold patch between the two of them.

 

After a few minutes, Douglas managed to control himself again. Martin felt him pulling back and released him, gazing anxiously to gauge his facial expression. Douglas looked uncomfortable, and Martin pre-empted the awkwardness. “Don’t. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

 

Douglas shrugged, hopelessly. “I’ve tried… _so_ hard to keep it all together, I have, I have.” His voice was almost pleading. “I know I’ve been an utter bastard this week.”

 

“You should have said.” Martin pushed Douglas’ rapidly cooling tea gently towards him. “We would have understood.”

 

“It would have meant it was real.” Douglas took a sip of his cold tea and grimaced. “I mean – I know it is real, but I just… couldn’t say it. I’m not _crying_ in front of _Carolyn_.” He glanced up. “I don’t want to cry in front of _you_.”

 

“Sorry.” Martin stared at his lap.

 

“Don’t be.” Douglas shook his head once more. “I… I’m glad you’re here.”

 

“Phew.”

 

Douglas turned back to his tea. “I’ll have to say sorry to poor Arthur. He didn’t deserve any of it.”

 

“If anyone will forgive you, Arthur will, don’t worry.”

 

Douglas nodded. “It was just… oh, how can I explain?” He pondered, sadness still twisting his mouth into something ugly and unfamiliar. “All week – I’ve been so conscious of the _stupidest_ things. All these words seem to have a weird power over me that they never did before. Like last night – I was watching TV – well, not even really watching, I was in the room and it was on. And there was this makeover show, and two women discussing an outfit, and one of them said that she thought it was utterly _tragic_ –“ His voice dripped with sarcasm. “And Arthur today, saying that our minor delay would be a disaster –“ He flapped a frustrated hand. “I just want to scream. These things – these tiny, stupid _things_ – they’re not tragedies, not disasters. What happened to Ava – that’s what those words should be reserved for.” Martin was silent, watching Douglas push away his cup in infuriation.

 

“And I know it’s unreasonable.” Douglas carried on, louder now. “Last week – last week I was using that vocabulary with impunity myself. It’s just that now – _now_ –“

 

“It’s a lot to come to terms with.” Martin was surprised to hear himself speak, but continued regardless. “When my… when Dad died… it’s the smallest things. You can be having a perfectly ordinary day, not even thinking about it, and then – out of the blue – something just gets you.”

 

Douglas nodded. “That’s exactly it.” His eyes met Martin’s. “You understand.”

 

Martin ignored the slight amazement evident in Douglas’ tone. “Have you been told when the funeral is?” he asked, tentatively. “We’ll cover any flights for you.”

 

Douglas’ brow creased again. “I don’t know if they want me there.” Unhappiness throbbed in his words. “I… drifted apart from the family a bit, after my marriage broke up. They were such good friends with Laura – my ex – you see.” He rubbed one hand over his wrist. “I don’t want to cause any issues.”

 

Martin thought for a moment “Well, they rang specially to let you know.” His voice grew more confident. “And – you are – were – her godfather, after all. You should be there.”

 

A thoughtful nod greeted his words. “I want to – to say goodbye.” Douglas’ voice cracked again, but he managed to hold it together.

 

“Then go.” Martin took Douglas’ hand, squeezed it. “The day will be all about Ava. She sounds like an amazing person – you should go and… remember that.”

 

Douglas was silent for a long time, and Martin began to fear that he’d overstepped, or offended. But eventually Douglas looked up, and managed a half-smile.

 

“Thanks,” he said, quietly. “You’re – I’m grateful.”

 

“Anytime,” Martin declared, honestly.  “And – can I tell Carolyn?” He saw Douglas hesitate, but pressed on. “I really think that this week should be counted as compassionate leave.”

 

“I deserve my suspension.” Douglas’ face became shuttered again, and Martin shook his head firmly.

 

“I disagree.”

 

A big sigh. “Fine.” Douglas shifted uncomfortably. “But please don’t tell her that I’ve been… blubbing, all over you.”

 

Martin smiled. “She wouldn’t mind,” he said. “But – as you wish. I won’t say a word. Not to anyone. It’s none of their business.”

 

Douglas looked deeply relieved. “Thanks.”

 

“Will you be alright?”

 

“I… think so.” Douglas seemed surprised. “I feel a bit better.”

 

“Shall I leave you in peace?” Martin poked gently at his palm. “Now I’ve stopped bleeding all over your kitchen.”

 

“Sorry about that.”

 

“Not your fault.”

 

“OK. I’m fine.” Douglas sat back. He did look ten times better than when Martin had arrived an hour before, in spite of his blotchy face and rumpled hair.

 

Martin stood. “Not fine yet, I don’t think.” He patted Douglas warmly on the shoulder. “You will be, though.” Heading for the hall, he could hear the FO following him. “Call me, anytime. I mean it. My phone’s always on.”

 

“Thanks.” Martin saw genuine gratitude written across Douglas’ features. “I’ll take some time… just to process everything. Then I’ll be back to work next week.”

 

“Whenever you’re ready.” Martin tugged open the front door and stepped outside. “We’ll be here.”


	4. Epilogue

It was a gorgeous summer’s day, and Martin reflected that he’d rarely seen a more beautiful church. The sun’s rays shone through the stained glass, spilling pools of liquid colour on to the dusty stone floor, illuminating tiny motes that danced and wavered in the light.

 

Martin felt Douglas’ shoulder shift beside his, and he glanced over. “Alright?” he whispered.

 

Douglas nodded, a sigh escaping him as the vicar stood to begin the service.

 

Martin had been amazed when Douglas had phoned, three days after their conversation. Despite his offer to talk, he hadn’t really expected his self-sufficient and prideful first officer to reach out for any further help. But when he’d answered his mobile, Douglas had been subdued, though calm; had explained that contrary to all his expectations, Ava’s parents had asked him to read a psalm at the funeral. And he wanted to, but he didn’t think – that was, he needed someone – needed –

 

Martin had guessed where he was going. “Do you want me to come?” he offered.

 

Douglas had gratefully accepted. “Some support would be… appreciated,” he’d said.

 

So now, they were sitting in the service, Martin bolstering Douglas, side by side. The strains of the first hymn died away and Martin could see Douglas scrumpling the order of service in his tensely clenched fist, the emotions wracking him too strong for him to notice the destruction of the flimsy pamphlet. Martin gently reached to extract it from between his fingers.

 

The vicar was speaking again. “Our first Psalm will be read by Douglas Richardson, who was Ava’s godfather.” The priest gave Douglas an encouraging, respectful smile, and Martin patted the FO’s knee.

 

“You can do it,” he whispered, as Douglas got up and walked slowly to the lectern. Martin could see the calming breaths he was taking, noticed that he deliberately avoided catching anyone’s eye as he straightened out the printed paper with his portion of scripture written on it.

 

At first, Ava’s godfather’s words were quiet, almost tremulous. But gradually, Douglas’ volume increased, and Martin’s chest swelled with emotion as Douglas finally found his voice, speaking so evidently from the heart. Douglas looked down for the first time, and met Martin’s eyes, as he read on.

 

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for you are with me…”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello on Tumblr - jay-eagle.tumblr.com .


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